


25. Humiliation

by titC



Series: Whumptober 2019 [25]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, tw: in the title, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-11-27 12:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20948462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: There were a good many things that Wilson Fisk had found motivated him.





	25. Humiliation

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Whumptober](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/) for organizing it and [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/) for the beta!  


There were a good many things that Wilson Fisk had found motivated him.

First of all, of course, was power. He wanted to see people coming to him for anything: a job, financial help, drugs, deaths, favors of any kind. He provided, and then they were in his debt.

He’d started out small: finding small packets of the finest and smoothest coke for his superiors, getting rid of a rival without implicating his boss, being the middleman for operations in which someone disposable was needed. He’d made himself the go-to man, the one they all overlooked or thought too stupid to take matters into his own hands and act for himself, the one they all despised.

He’d proven them all wrong, in the end.

Money was also something he greatly enjoyed, of course, but its biggest appeal was how it consolidated and augmented power.

It was one more thing people came to him about, for a start.

But Wilson had found that money meant access to better suits, well-tailored and elegantly understated; he’d learned clothes were power. With the right clothes he felt more poised and more imposing, and he’d seen the difference in the eyes of those over whom he wanted to have control.

Wealth also gave him more privacy: cars with tinted windows, offices and residence far enough away very few people knew where he lived and worked, the most discreet bodyguards money could find… Surround yourself with secrecy, make people speak your name with fear and ultimately not speak it at all for fear he’d hear, make them forget you were only a man of flesh and blood: _that_ was power, too.

Wilson had grown up poor, with his father – a _true_ loser – mocking him for being weak and fat and not a real man. Other kids had called him _Piggy_, and when they’d taken his lunch money they’d laughed and yelled, _Piggy Bank! Piggy Bank!_

Wilson had a very good memory.

Some of those kids he met again as a young man, working for the same mob boss he was. They still thought him slow; they said he wasn’t a threat. Wilson let them talk; he’d grown a thick skin by then. His strength and his penchant for violence, once known, had made them wary to say anything to his face, but they still talked when they thought he couldn't hear.

They were the first to die after he’d killed the boss and taken control. They didn’t die quickly.

Wilson wanted people to see him and know he could break and annihilate them and everything, everyone they held dear. He didn’t care about respect, not anymore; he knew he wouldn't really get it and it didn’t mean much, anyway. It was an abstract concept. But the pretense of respect and the naked fear on their face he’d take – no, he’d _revel_ in it. The terror in their eyes when they heard about the brains he’d splattered all over a porcelain sink; the abject subservience when they came to beg him for something, anything.

Yes, that was good. That was what he wanted.

There were only three people in his life he had never wanted to crush like bugs.

The first was, of course, his mother. She’d been in his corner from the start, and she’d always supported him. She’d helped build him, and he’d forever be grateful.

The second was James Wesley. He’d been faithful to the end; a smart man who’d risen from nothing to be Wilson’s right hand. From the day he’d found this young teen with hunger and determination in his eyes Wilson had taken him under his wing, nurtured him and given him all he needed: an education, encouragement, friendship.

Wesley had been so smart; he’d immediately seen what Wilson hid from everyone else and he’d been there every step of the way to see the Fisk empire rise from nothing.

His death had been a terrible blow that Wilson doubted he’d ever fully recover from.

The third person was, of course, Vanessa. She’d seen him at his worst: tongue-tied and shy, embarrassed in that restaurant, defeated by that heinous little lawyer who thought he could use his fists if the law wasn’t enough. In spite of all this she’d stayed at his side; she’d married him and she’d taken control of his operations outside of prison while he was stuck inside. She was waiting for him to come back so they’d have New York in their hands, as things should be.

He was looking forward to seeing Murdock’s face, when he was free again.

Humiliation, Wilson had found, was a very powerful motivator. He’d weaponized it, and it would give him what he needed to get out of jail and rebuild all he’d lost. He would never choose to go back and live a different, easier life; revenge had made him go far, and would make him go even further. It fuelled him, and nothing burned hotter and stronger.

No one would point and laugh at him ever again; no one would dare. Some fellow prisoners were looking at him with mockery in their eyes: they thought him finished, a washout, someone unable to get to the top and stay there. Someone weak.

They’d be the first to learn how wrong they were, and Wilson would make the lesson painful and memorable for whoever witnessed it.

Nothing else mattered.


End file.
